Sunday, December 29, 2013

Another Excerpt from The Queen of Swords

“Just so ye know, vampires don’t kill—except
by accident, of course, or to commit deliberate murder.”

The sound of his deep,
musical burr quickened Cat’s pulse. It could only bethe good-looking Scot who’d been checking her out from the stacks
for the past twenty minutes.

“Excuse me?” She
raised her eyes from Anne Rice’s Interview
with the Vampire, but did not turn around. There was no need. She’d already
memorized every detail of his appearance while he skirted her gaze. Each time
she looked his way, hoping to catch his eye, he was conveniently reading the
book in his hand. Each time she returned to her work, the prickling hairs on
the back of her neck gave away his game.

He seemed uncannily
familiar too, though she couldn’t place him. The proud stance, powerful build,
and thick copper hair all struck a chord—a sweet arpeggio that resonated
somewhere deep inside.

“The average adult
has five liters of blood,” he began to explain, “and the average stomach can
hold fewer than two.” He paused to shift gears. “She’s also wrong about the
coffins. And the impotence—though the book remains one of my favorites of the
genre.

“Mine too.” She set
the gold-clad novel on the table beside her laptop. “Do you go here? You seem
familiar."

“Nay. I went to
Saint Andrew’s ages ago.

She still didn’t
turn. “Oh? Then what brings you here?"

“I just moved to the
village,” he said, “and heard the university had an impressive collection of
vampire literature. So, I thought I’d see for myself—to kill a wee bit of time.
But it seems ye’ve beaten me to it.

“For my
dissertation,” she offered quickly, pinging with guilt. She did not add that
renewal of her faculty contract hinged on her finishing her Ph.D. before the
term ended in three more weeks. Or that she was hopelessly behind. If she told
him how under-the-gun she felt, he might leave. And she wanted to keep talking
to him.

He was undeniably handsome.
Bodice-ripper, book-cover handsome. Straight nose with a slight flare at the
end; strong jaw and jutting chin; prominent brow and cheekbones; intense,
deep-set eyes that turned down at the corners ever so slightly; and a sweet,
kissable mouth whose tucked lower lip made it both boyish and sensual.

Apart from the biker
jacket and boots, he might have stepped out of one of the Highlander romances
she read every chance she got—a longstanding guilty pleasure. For some
inexplicable reason, she’d been attracted to all things Scottish for as long as
she could remember.

He reached past her,
selected Dracula off her stack of
reference material, and began looking through it. She could hear the pages
turning behind her, but couldn’t bring herself to turn round. If she met his
eyes, she would melt like butter.

“He was lucky to
have no reflection to fuck with his head.”

His voice brought
her back, but only partly. “Who?”

“Count Dracula.”

“Oh.” Embarrassment
scorched her cheeks. “It was meant to symbolize that he had no soul.”

“I ken that. But is
it true, do ye think?”

Cat knew from her
Highlander romances the word “ken” meant “know” in Scots, but was otherwise
confused by his question. Why did she find his closeness so discomposing? Men,
even good-looking ones, rarely had this effect on her.

She was going to say
“eternal damnation,” but remembered it was never a good idea to discuss
religion—especially her religion—with
any but like-minded practitioners of the craft. And even then, it could lead to
heated disagreement.

Turning at last, she
met his eyes, an astonishing shade of gold—like topazes or whisky backlit by
the sun. They also were so gnawingly familiar she wanted to scream.

She tried to speak, to wrench her eyes away, but
couldn’t seem to. Images of heather and bracken, of misty hills and crystal
lochs, washed over her like a dream. What in the name of the goddess was
happening to her?

Unable to bear his
riveting gaze any longer, she turned back to the table, winded and shaken. She
took a couple of breaths to slow her pulse and regain control. As he reached
past her to return Dracula to its
place, her eyes followed his hand—a sculptural marvel with long fingers
tapering from furrowed knuckles to lustrous nails. She shivered as she imagined
those fingers traveling over her flesh. He smelled good, too. Natural and
earthy. Like a walk in the woods on a crisp autumn morning.

“How do I know you?”
She had to force the words through her throat. “Have we met before?”

Nina Mason is a hopeless romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten. When not writing, she works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager.